


when temptation calls

by threadoflife



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Face-Fucking, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Stubble, another kind of face fucking though, freebeard, messy sex, sherlock is a whore for John's stubble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 17:02:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12137058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threadoflife/pseuds/threadoflife
Summary: John has stubble on his face; Sherlock is fascinated.Face-fucking of another variety ensues.





	when temptation calls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/gifts).
  * Inspired by [[Podfic] Perpetual Motion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11921412) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock). 



> This is shameless face fucking porn, inspired as I was listening and dying my way through Locky's "Perpetual Motion." I started this out on tumblr and then had to leave for work, because RL sucks, and now I've finished it up.
> 
> Unbeta-ed, quickly written etc. Pure filth. Enjoy?
> 
> For the record, this is how this piece started...
> 
> [](https://ibb.co/idzo4Q)
> 
> [](https://ibb.co/gRDFjQ)

It wasn’t the texture.

  
That’s not how it started, at least; it wasn’t about the texture initially. It started with John missing out on his shave for nearly two days (which they’d spent sleepless and chasing criminals, as they were wont to do), which gave Sherlock ideas. As John was fond of saying, Sherlock and ideas usually courted disastrous results, and Sherlock was inclined to agree. But this idea, this one particular idea, was not about courting disaster; it was about courting his oft ignored and dismissed physical needs, and wasn’t John always going on about how he needed to eat, how he needed to properly take care of his transport?

  
This was just one more way John could help take care of his transport. He would realise that, surely.

  
But it wasn’t about the texture. It was about the sheer allure of the vision: it was, chiefly, an affair of aesthetics and Sherlock’s appreciation thereof. John, collapsed on their couch, still in last night’s dirty trousers and shirt, sleeping away his lack of sleep with two of his shirt buttons popped open. His pale, peaceful face was entirely enticing like this: streaked with the weak rays of the early morning sunlight peaking in through the window, illuminating the shadows underneath his jaw and on his cheeks. Sherlock, sleep-dazed and just awoken from sleeping in his armchair, blinked, and blinked, and blinked. It took him a shamefully long moment to realise what these shadows were.

  
When he did, his cock, ever stubborn and hopeful fool that it was, stirred. It stirred in his trousers: gave a feeble little jerk that shot through the insides of Sherlock’s thighs in a flash of heat, made them tremble too, just the slightest, tiniest bit. Sherlock, already way too gone, kept staring fixedly at John on the couch—in particular at the shadows, which really were stubble, stubble on John’s jaw and cheek and temples. When Sherlock stood, he felt his pulse in his throat, thumping irrationally fast and hard.

  
So _hard_.

  
On stupidly weak legs, Sherlock stumbled to the couch. His fingers were equally as stupid, reduced to dysfunctionality through the sight of John—unshaven, rough, raw. They fumbled at his fly, awfully imprecise, and Sherlock stood there, frozen by the sight, sucking his lower lip into his mouth and keeping it trapped between his teeth, as he freed his cock from his trousers and just kept staring downwards: the shadows on John’s face were emphasised like this, staring at him from above.

There was a hint at John’s temples, just below where his hairline ended, darkening the hair further and giving the illusion of longer hair. But it wasn’t hair, Sherlock knew very well. He stared, fascinated, at where it disappeared further below to trace the slopes of John’s cheeks, accentuating them, to eventually frame that strong jaw. He couldn’t help himself: he reached out, had to touch it at once. And when he did, the second the pads of his index and middle finger, feather light, just brushed over the stubble below the right corner of John’s mouth where it became the cheek, the stinging pleasure of the aesthetics transformed—materialised into the texture, into impressions of _rough_ , and _prickly_ , and _sharp_.

The pleasure intensified into molten heat, and Sherlock gasped, “Oh, God,” voice choked, and his cock gave another jerk, precome, so wet, spurting out of his slit. The sensation of dampness at the head of his cock undid him, and he stumbled forward, legs weak and full of jelly, right onto John. He caught himself just so—a hand on the back of the couch, the other on the armrest, saving him from cock first diving into John’s face—not altogether an unlikeable idea, but surely John would disagree—and the impact was so loud that Sherlock actually winced. Silence ensued. He didn’t trust himself to open his eyes, just hovered there over John, on trembling arms and legs, with his cock out of his fly right in front of John’s face.

Not the situation he’d imagined.

But John, oh, John—surprising him as always, as ever—was quite unexpected indeed.

Before Sherlocks’s cock, John’s breathing changed. The deep, slow breathing was interrupted by a sudden indrawn breath; then a lack of breath; then, oh, God, a hitched breath—and then John said, voice as raw and rough with sleep as the stubble on Sherlock’s skin had felt, “Hi,” and Sherlock’s eyes popped open.

Gazing down at John’s face, Sherlock took a moment. He licked his lips. He said, “Hello,” perfectly composed, as if his cock wasn’t just mere inches from John’s eyes.

Those eyes crinkled. That mouth didn’t twitch at all, but those eyes crinkled. Something in Sherlock’s chest settled, some unacknowledged faint anxiety.

“Nice surprise,” John said, looking at the surprise right before him. Though his voice was still sleep-rough and deep, his tone was light, deceptively so. “What’s up?”

“My cock,” Sherlock snapped, embarrassed at John’s awful pun. He pressed his lips together and glared down haughtily. Fortunately, his arms were beginning to gain back their strength. “Which isn’t my fault.”

“It’s not?” John asked, all innocence, and damn him—he breathed a little heavier, leaned forward a bit, and Sherlock had to shut his eyes at that. Warm gusts of breath right on his wet cockhead, fuck. Fuck. He could feel where the precome had slid down the side of the head through John breathing right on it.

“S-stubble,” Sherlock managed through closed eyes, voice breaking. “Stubble.”

“Stubble?” John murmured the word right against him, and the minuscule motion of his mouth shaping the word made his upper lip brush against the overheated skin of Sherlock’s cock. He must have licked his lip: it was damp, and stuck to Sherlock's cock for a moment before it peeled away. Sherlock made an undignified sound in his throat—and yes, his arms were back to trembling—and didn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t.

A second passed, then two, then three, in which Sherlock was aware only of the blood rushing through his ears, of his pulse hammering madly in his throat, of John’s breath, deepened again, leaving his cock. Leaving his cock, which meant he was turning his face, which meant—

“John,” Sherlock choked out, “John,” urgent and disbelieving, the hand holding him up on the back of the couch flying up blindly to cup the back of John’s head. He was just holding John’s face, wasn’t pressing him forward or away or moving him at all; he was just cradling his skull in his shivering fingers, cradling, holding, cherishing. His whole arm was trembling. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. The third invocation of John’s name was stuck in his throat, refused to get out.

“Breathe,” John whispered, as if it were as easy as that, as if Sherlock could indeed just breathe with John’s face no longer inches from him but right against his cock: as if he could just breathe when the sensation of John’s cheek, rough and itchy with stubble, dragged slow and endless down the side of his shaft.

The texture was more overwhelming than the sight. Sherlock had his eyes closed, and John had his stubble against his cock, and Sherlock could see none of it but could only feel it: innumerable little sharpish sensations prickling over his hot, erect skin, and the sound of them scraping down his shaft was almost more obscene than the feeling; it echoed in his red ears, vibrated through his inner thighs, which were, restricted as they were by his trousers hanging below his arse, spread as widely as possible, trembling over John’s face.

John made a little, “Mmmhh,” in his throat, as though he enjoyed it just as much. The sound made Sherlock open his eyes. He couldn’t go a second longer without seeing it. He had to put the puzzle together, sound and sensation and sight, he had to have it all because he was so greedy, so greedy for more of John.

The breath he had so long kept in his throat escaped him in a heavy rush, in the shape of John’s name. “John,” he groaned, gravel and roughness contorting the vowels and dragging them out into a woeful, pained, Jooo-ooooohn. John’s eyes, dark and glinting with some primal satisfaction, pinned him to the spot.

“You’re gorgeous,” John husked, speaking into Sherlock’s inner thigh. His lips brushed against the sensitive skin there, leaving it hot and branded. “You want to fuck my face? Come on. I want you to.”

“Fuck,” Sherlock grunted from between gritted teeth, and John's vulgar words made his hand at the back of John’s head clench. With John so openly inviting him, Sherlock didn’t waste a second more: he began to shift his hips back, slow as the tide, and watched his erection slide down the curve of John’s cheek, its heavy weight making it dangle to the left. His bollocks were touching John’s chin: with the shift of his hips back, the stubble raked roughly first over the underside of them, then the fuller curve of the front, and Sherlock lost a breath in a gasped, “Oh!” as the stubble scraped over the upper side. He stilled, stayed like that, eyes fixed on the sight of John’s eyes dark and possessive on him, on his own cock, barely touched and yet overstimulated, leaving trails of white pearling over the expanse of John’s stubbled cheek, translucent and milky on the dark, short hair, a filthy, entirely delectable sight.

Something inside him broke loose: he stared, and then he snapped his hips forward in a vicious shove, and John made a sound, and then another, and Sherlock dragged his hips back and gave another shove, and John made another sound, and then Sherlock’s head tipped back as though it was too heavy, flushed throat bared, and he began to fuck away at John’s face, began to fuck over John’s cheeks, the obscene scraping sound of the stubble on his flesh mingling with his own gasped breaths and John’s rumbling groans—and it was so affecting, it was so fucking affecting, to be fucking John’s face with John enjoying it enough that he couldn’t stifle the sounds he made into Sherlock’s groin, even if it couldn’t strictly feel physically good for him.

“John,” Sherlock rasped, “ _John_ ,” out his open, slack mouth, face pointed towards the ceiling as he swallowed convulsively and let himself be lost to the rhythm of his pelvis. He kept fucking like that, kept fucking the contours of Johns cheeks, felt his balls rasp and rasp and rasp over John’s itchy, prickly chin, the skin of his shaft abraded and a little sore from the rough treatment of that equally rough skin, but he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

He did stop, however, when he heard the snick of a belt being undone and the sound of a zipper being pulled down.

Eyes opening and hips stilling, Sherlock righted his head so he could look down at John. Breathing hard as if he were the one having a go at Sherlock’s face, John was flushed and wrecked, his trembling hands stroking hard and fast at the cock he’d pulled out of his own trousers. Sherlock stared, swallowing hard, before John’s face snapped up to meet him.

“Don’t stop,” John hissed, “don’t you fucking stop, or I’ll put you down and—”

Sherlock didn’t let John finish. He fisted the short hair at the back of John’s head and dragged his head back so his throat was exposed, all that glorious skin darkened with stubble. He quickly leaned backwards to impatiently push down his trousers and pants, hopping undignified on one leg to toss them away—his cock slapping his thigh with the movement, but he couldn't be arsed to care—and then swiftly brought his foot up on the couch behind John for better leverage, then his knee of the other leg on the other side, until he was veritably straddling John and shoving his cock into John’s face.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock muttered, feebly, roughly. “You asked for it.”

In spite of answering, John merely turned his head a bit so his face was buried right in the groove of Sherlock’s groin. He breathed in deeply, slowly—and didn't that just threaten to burst Sherlock’s stamina into nothing; John was smelling him—and gave a shaky little groan before he pulled back a bit to bite punishingly into the fleshy part of Sherlock's upper thigh. “I fucking did,” John muttered darkly, and with another bite, sharper this time, a threat, he added, “Then fucking give it to me.”

Sherlock, of course, took the challenge; he took every challenge John offered him. He took the challenge with flaring nostrils, narrowing eyes, and a jerky nod.

He lost himself a bit after that.

Trusting his weight and balance to the leg behind John, he leaned forward—grasped his cock with his left hand while the other returned to John's hair, fisting the short strands—and John gave a little vindictive, “Yes,” hissed somewhere below Sherlock’s balls—he leaned forward and very slowly, very cautiously, exerted pressure with his thumb below the cockhead so the spongy head dipped down a bit. Lips bitten, chest heaving with aborted breaths, Sherlock traced the side of John's face with his cockhead: the wet glans just peaking out from behind the rather generous fraenulum touched the stiff hair at John's temple, and both Sherlock and John groaned at that—and Sherlock’s fingers around his cock tightened when he heard the telltale slick sound of John resuming his wanking—and gently, almost reverently, Sherlock drew back ever so slightly to drag that damp cockhead down John's temple.

When he reached the cheek, Sherlock swallowed convulsively, drew back another bit, and bit the inner flesh of his lower lip so hard he tasted blood, thick and sweet. Equally as sweet, or perhaps sweeter, was the sensation of the flat of his cockhead being dragged over the prickly expanse of John's stubbled cheek; Sherlock made a low, desperate sort of sound from somewhere deep in his chest as he felt some of the more stubborn little hairs softly dig into his slit, and then he just couldn't help himself: he stayed there, over John's cheek, and pushed his hips forward again, and with his cock in his hand he could guide the flat of his cockhead diagonally up John's cheek, from the corner of his mouth back up to his temple. The reverse direction stirred the stubble against the grain, and more of the little stubborn hairs prickled gently yet firmly against and into Sherlock’s slit, and Sherlock was a slave to the sensation, pain-itchy-sweet and hot it drove him forward—and backwards—and forwards—and backwards again, until he had all but smeared most of his precome over John's cheek, which was glistening with all the sticky wetness. Below him, John was mouthing frantically at whatever skin was nearest—and did Sherlock's inner thigh sting like a motherfucker from John's sharp teeth—muttering and grunting nonsensically, things like, “Yes, sweetheart,” and, “come on,” and, “fuck my face,” and, “fuck, come on, fuck,” and again and again, “fuck it, come on, _fuck it_ , fuck it,” and he gave a deep, shuddering groan full of heat against Sherlock's skin and brought one of his hands up to clutch at Sherlock's arse cheek, pushing Sherlock forward against his face as if Sherlock could be any closer than he already was—

And Sherlock whinged, “John,” and shuffled forwards and up to drag his tight, aching balls all over the wetness of John's cheek, a mess of wet-rough that complemented the hairy, wrinkled skin of his balls so beautifully that he made a sound like he was dying. He began furiously fisting his cock right in John's face, jostling John's head with his knuckles a bit from the force of it, but neither of them cared: John was breathing a marathon and wanking himself just as fast and hard as Sherlock was if the wet, slick sounds of flesh slapping flesh were anything to go by, and he stayed right where he was, couldn't go anywhere really, because Sherlock held him to his groin with his one hand while he fucked his cock with the other, and John made such beautiful noises as though he never wished to be anywhere else but below Sherlock’s balls as he had them rubbed and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed over his filthy, wet face, a skritch and a scrape and a rasp shudder-fast and wet-prickly—and Sherlock—

Sherlock came, powerfully and hard, so hard that his stomach tightened and he had to bend forward into himself. He said, “Oh,” and, “oh, oh,” faintly, hysterically, as his hips kept juddering in little push-pulls back and forth over John's face, until all the precome was come, was thick and salty and white and running down his hairline, his eye, his ear, his cheek, his nose—the entire half of his face.

Sherlock stared, and blinked, and breathed like a horse, at that wonderful sight below him.

He jerked another time—in pain, not delight—as John met his own crisis and bit down fiercely on Sherlock's inner thigh. With a dark curl of satisfaction as the pain peaked, Sherlock thought deliriously that he'd be carrying those teeth marks for days. God, yes. Yes.

For another couple seconds he could stand upright, then his legs gave out. He fell backwards, inelegantly and clumsily, with his arse right into John's wet, soiled lap. He felt the wetness against his butt and squirmed a little in distaste, shooting John a tiny baleful glare.

John silenced him immediately. Sherlock’s thoughts couldn't even come to an end. “I swear to God,” John was saying, blinking furiously with one eye because everything around it was full of come, “I swear to God, if you start complaining about your arse being a bit wet now, Sherlock, I will punch you.”

They stared at one another like that, Sherlock unblinking and John with half his face ruined, milky, and more than wet.

“All right,” Sherlock agreed, primly. “I suppose you may be right. This time.”

“I am more than fucking right,” John shot back, but it was with a small, crooked grin.

“Hmmm.” Flicking a sweaty curl of hair out of his face, Sherlock looked up at John from under his lashes. “I suppose you are amenable to me cleaning you up?”

John's mouth twitched. “You better fucking be cleaning me up,” he said in a no-nonsense voice, but he wasn't moving or making any other gesture to shoo Sherlock off him.

Typical. Sherlock mentally rolled his eyes. John was all bark, no bite (though, Sherlock thought, his inner thigh disagreed there), and he would indulge Sherlock if it was the last he did.

With a grin unfurling slowly on his mouth, Sherlock leaned forward—again right into John's face—and then he dragged his tongue over the roughness of John's cheek, lapping off his own come.

He pulled back to look at John. “Yes?”

John, by now grinning stupidly, pulled Sherlock down by the hair and muttered, “Yes, you mad, lovely wanker,” right into his mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> Go leave your love for Locky's podfic!!!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] when temptation calls](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13123575) by [missmuffin221](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmuffin221/pseuds/missmuffin221), [Violetwylde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violetwylde/pseuds/Violetwylde)




End file.
